Envelope.

Before we launch into this, I have to tell you that this story is 100% true. Normally, I fudge the details a little bit, to make the narrative flow or move a little more smoothly or make people sound smarter or dumber than they did, whenever the story took place, originally. This one, though, THIS story is as close to 100% accurate as I can be, three days after it was told to me.

This story doesn't work, unless you are forewarned that it is absolutely true.

Friday morning, 8:30AM, my cell phone rings, as I am just beginning the train ride into the office. I check the caller ID and see that it's a guy I know from work. But because I'm on a train and I don't want to be The Guy Who Annoys Other People With His Cell Phone Calls, I reject the call and put him through to voicemail. He's probably returning my call from the night before. No big deal.

When the phone IMMEDIATELY rings again and I see it's him, I understand instantly that it's important and that he knows that I'm screening my calls for some reason and he needs to speak to me. So, I answer the call.

"Where are you," he asks without any sort of greeting.

"I'm on the train, heading to work, why?" I ask.

"You got a few minutes to talk?"

"You've got me as a captive audience for another thirty minutes, before I'm downtown. What's up?"

"Okay, dude, I have to tell someone this. I want to get your opinion on this." and I know without asking that someone is dead or dying or has lost a limb or he's had his heart broken by another selfish girl and he's up at 8:30AM, thinking about it. Or maybe the office has burned down. It never occurs to me that it might be good news. Good news would've waited or gone into my voicemail. "I had something strange happen to me, last night and I want to tell you about it."

"Okay. Go ahead."

"Well, it started when we went out for drinks last night, after work. Just me and two or three of the guys from my basketball league. We'd had a long workday and wanted to unwind with a couple of beers."

"Uh huh."

"And we ended up staying there and watching the game on the TVs and lost track of time and ended up drinking way later than we thought we would've. Eventually it was time to close the bar."

"Okay."

"Well, it wasn't just me and the guys from work, but another buddy of mine, that I used to know from another bar, joined us and he had a buddy with him, too. I didn't know the buddy, but he was a pretty cool guy. And he bought a few pitchers and was pretty cool. I liked him."

"So, when the bar closed and the bartender was going to kick us out, it was the buddies buddy who suggests that we take a cab over to a 4AM bar that he knows about. He says that he's going to meet a few of his other buddies there. They're going to waiting for him."

"Now, I don't know this guy at all. I've never met him before tonight. But he seems to be a nice enough guy. And he bought me a few drinks and I don't want to go home yet. I want to stay out for a while. So, I agree to go."

"When we get to the second bar-"

"Which one?"

And he tells me the name of a 4AM bar that I've never heard of before.

"When we get there, there's a group of people waiting for this guy. And in the group are a couple of some pretty good looking girls. This guy introduces me around to the group and they're all super nice. I sit down and start drinking with them."

"A couple of rounds later and I'm drunk. I mean, I am Dru-uh-unk. And this guy, my new buddy, gets up to go mack on this girl at the bar, that he likes. As he gets up, an envelope falls out of his pocket. I say to him, 'Hey, man. You dropped this envelope out of your pocket.' and I reach down to get it for him."

'Hang onto it,' he says, 'I trust you. I'll be back for it in a bit.' and he walks over to the bar. I take the envelope and slip into my pocket and forget about it."

"At 4;30, they close down the bar and we all go our separate ways. I'm drunk, so I walk back to my car and they all pile into cabs to go onto where the party is next. They want me to go with them, but I'm done. So, I say 'Goodnight' to them and start walking home."

"I just leave my car where it is and walk home and pass out."

"When I got up this morning, I saw the envelope sticking out of my pocket and it takes me a while to remember what it is and where it came from. I went over to it to see if it has this guys name on it or his cell phone number on it. I don't have any way to contact him. The envelope is open, so I look inside and what do you think I found?"

"Cocaine" I guess.

"Nope."

"A human finger?"

"Nope."

"A mysterious key to some unknown lock."

"No. I find twenty five hundred dollars in it!"

"Wow." I am stunned. I have to imagine the number to see how much it is. More than $250, less than $250,000. When I see the figure $2,500, I respect it immediately. That's a sizable chunk of change. It represents a little over 2 months of my current, untaxed salary, if I had LITERALLY no expenses. Which I always seem to have. "That's a decent chunk of change." I say, helpfully.

"I know. I can't believe it. I'm looking at it right now. It's all hundreds and fifties."

I say "Well, what are you going to do with it?" at the same time that he says, "What do you think I should do with it?" We pause and he waits to let me speak. After a respectful silence, I say, "Well, as I see it, you have two options here. First, you can keep it and spend it and hope that you never run into him again. Or, the second option is that you can do everything in your power to find him and give it back to him. And if you don't find him, you should sit on it, without spending it, until you DO find him and can give it back to him."

"I think he's a drug dealer," my friend says.

"I think you're right." I say. "And if you don't find a way to get that back thim, pronto, he's going to come looking for you. And when he finds you, he'll break your knees for running off with his money."

There's a big pause, as my friend considers this.

"Of course, I didn't really know the guy, either. He was a buddy of a guy I hardly know. I don't know his name. I don't have his phone number and I'm pretty sure that he doesn't have mine. I could just disappear and this money disappears with me. "

And we both sit there quietly, thinking that through...

"Okay, here's what I would do. Take tonight off and hit BOTH of those bars. Spend an hour or so at each one. Don't drink. Sit where you guys sat at both of them. Take a book if you're nervous. Sit and wait and see if he shows up."
"If I lost $2,500, I'd take up residence at the place where I'd lost it and look for the guy that I didn't know. I'd also be very, very happy with that guy if he was there waiting for me, with my money. I'd probably NOT track him down and shoot him in the kneecaps. I'd buy him a pitcher of beer and maybe give him a $100 reward and call it squarseys. That's what I would do."

"Yeah, you're probably right." he said, defeated.

We ended the call shortly thereafter.

It was two days before I heard from him again. I was certain that he was just fine or dead and in either case there wasn't much I could do for him.

"So, how did it go with the envelope?" I asked him.

"Man, I sat in those two bars all night long, looking for that guy. He never showed up."

"So, now what are you going to do?"

"Deposit it in the bank and avoid those two bars."

And that's what he did.

True Story.

Cheers,
Mr.B

To Blog is To Say, "Here I am".

I have this file on my computer in my Firefox browser called, simply and astutely, "Blogs".

In it, I have links to nearly twenty blogs kept by my friends and associates here in Chicago. If you are reading this and you keep a blog, odds are very good that I read it and the URL for it is here in my file.

It's the first thing that I check in the morning when I get up, after email and before teeth brushing. I scroll through every link, checking up on folks.

It's the last thing that I look at before I go to bed at night. (After email and before teeth brushing, actually.)

And if there's down time at work and my email and the Bee Board aren't keeping me hopping, I take a quick stroll through a similar file on my work computer and check in on folks.

I read everything.
Well, everything new.
And if a person catches my interest with a clever entry title in the past, I'll read that too. I try to give my entries clever titles for the same reason. (Although, if I REALLY wanted to trick people into reading them, I'd go back and change them all to read, "Amazing Blowjob Story #1", "Amazing Blowjob Story #2" and so on. Nothing captures a blog readers interest like Sex. Well, sex and seeing themselves mentioned. Those are the big two.)

I think these people and how they choose to express themselves is fascinating. I get everything from true tales of childhood memories, to keen personal observation. Some very finely polished poetry. (Actually, most of the poetry that my friends attempt is more polished than they likely know. The thing about poetry that makes it work is having the courage to give it a try. After that, BOOM, it's a poem. I don't think I've ever read a "bad" poem. I've read ones that didn't speak to me. Or ones that got too mired down in language that it wasn't accessible to me anymore. But my friends, well, they speak from the heart and knowing them makes their poems all that much smarter and more endearing. In short, I occasionally read some very finely polished poetry.)

A guy a barely know, Arnie, keeps a fine, fine blog over on "A Year After the Breakup". You can find a link to it on the homepage of my blog. It's sublime. The picture compositions are frequently zenlike in their clarity. I am a fan of his photography. I swear I'd buy some of them a framed art for my apartment. It makes me want to get a camera and try it, myself. And the entries that accompany the pictures are usually smart and brief. I wish I wrote as well as he does. On a daily basis.

That's sort of what I'm talking about here. I barely know that guy and yet, by reading his blog, I know what his friends look like and what they do socially. How they interact with each other and other intimate details of his life.

He is compelled to keep that blog for whom? For his ex? For himself? For me? Who knows?
And yet, he does it daily. With a consistency that's amazing.

My theory about why he does it and why I do it and why you do it (if you do it) is because these are our mortal thoughts and by recording them, we prove that we existed. Birthed into existence by our frantic, monkey minds. These are our reflections and opinions. They are how we view the world. Direct, mainline entry ports into our souls and we record them as a defiant way of marking our existences. We live lives that don't mark us as someone "important" or "special" or "celebrity" and yet, here is a forum where we are interviewed and listened to and heeded. In the way that every human being needs to be heeded.

That's why we do it. To prove that we continue forward. And that we're here right now. And later, when we look back on this, to show where we were at one point.

And thank god for the technology that records my thoughts, transferred through my lightning fast, tappa tappa tappa fingertips and archived here for later viewing. By me. And by you. The Anonymous Reader.

An alternative theory that I've heard other people espouse, say that blogs are a form of public masturbation. Or maybe auto-fellatio is more accurate.
I don't know. That sounds a bit cynical to me. Like the stubborn mumblings of people on the sides of the prom dance floor, saying that "dancing is for fags, anyways". How do you know if you aren't out there, shaking you ass, fellas? The people commenting bitterly from the sidelines are invisible to the people out there on the dance floor. You're moving too fast to track people who aren't moving at all.

Maybe it's both.

I guess the difference is in how much you trust the author and his intentions. If you like him, it's a worthwhile endeavor. If you don't, then it's just him wanking himself off. Intention is key.

Either way, a good friend of mine, Joe, has entered his first blog entry ever over on MySpace. And I couldn't be happier for him. I couldn't be more proud of him. He's not an academic. He has no literary ambitions, but he has made a mark and said, "I'm here. I matter. This is what I've experienced and it's worth the time it took me to type it out." I have to support a definitive creative gesture like that.

He has, with that one entry, earned himself a link in my "Blog" file.

Well done, Joe.

Mr. B

Me Am Coach.

For the time being, I'm acting as the coach for a Playground Incubator 2 team. It's been a pleasure, through and through.
But as much as I am theoretically teaching them, they're teaching me things too.
Being a coach for a team is not the same thing as Being ON a team.
Or Being the Director of a Show.
It's a whole other bird, entirely. Teacher, Advisor, Guide, Diplomat, Mentor, Counselor, Negotiator, Representative. A coach, at one time or another, has to be all of them.

Some skills come to me quite naturally. Others take a little time to learn and integrate into my coaching style.

Here are a few lessons that I've learned recently about the Subtle Art of Coaching an Improv Troupe...

1.) Separate Yourself From The Team.
Like it or not, you're not on the team. And they HAVE TO become the people control the teams destiny. Otherwise the team has no future, if they're dependent on you to chart it for them.
Teams at IO have no control over anything. Not the schedule. Not their roster. Not their form. Not their coach. Nothing. Well, they get to control what night they want to rehearse and what t-shirt they wear to a show.
So, a team that consists of players who've either been trained at IO or who are currently playing there, there's a tendency to do nothing and have everything handled by the coach or the admin people. That's all that they know.
In helping a team find their own way, it's better, I think, to separate myself from them and point out options that they have, but to let them make the actual decisions. For example, I might forward show notices that are looking for troupes, but I won't book it for you.

The down side to that is that you miss out on the fun and the looseness that comes with being on a team. You're always standing on the outside. I'll very rarely attend social gatherings. And I'll be careful not to drink too much with them. I also won't spend too much outside rehearsal time with any one member. All of these are decisions intentionally made to instill some division between me and the team.

I also should mention that this division encourages the team to listen to your guidance and to respect your opinions, far more than if you were their buddy. The distance encourages respect.

2.)Let Go Of Your Expectations For A Team. Follow Them Where They Lead You.
God, I see so many coaches awkwardly cramming their square headed troupes into circular holes. And that's frustrating for everyone. The coach is unhappy because his team isn't being what he wants them to be. And the team is unhappy because they're doing their best, but STILL continue to fail the coaches expectations.
And all along the way, multiple opportunities are lost on both sides. Actually, I see this as being the coaches fault entirely. And he's the one missing the opportunities. Because the team has lots to offer him. He just doesn't see it. Because it's perhaps not the particular thing that he's looking for.
It's better, I think, to relax on your expectations and go where the team is leading you. If they're already pulling towards short, faster, funnier work, don't try to make them a slow, patient grounded troupe. Find them a form where they can do the short, faster, funnier work. And when they excel at it, you'll be enjoying yourself along with them.
The point isn't to change a team, it's to improve upon the skill sets that they already have.

3.) Encouragement Is CRITICAL To The Process.
Be positive. Point out the things that you like.
Point out the things that need improvement, but if you don't see progress from a player, don't hound them about it.
Space out your gentle reminders to them. Odds are, that players gets the message and is holding onto it as well as you are, but is getting distracted by the scenes or by the forms and forgets what they're working for. Don't harass them about it. Be gentle with your reminders and space them out. Too many or too often, leads to an unhappy player.
Likewise, point out when someone develops good, strong habits or shows actual improvement. Everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, you, me, the guy you just talked to, everyone enjoys having their successes noticed. It gives us a sense of accomplishment and that's critical to continuing a team's forward momentum. The fuel in their personal gas tanks.
Don't be overly sentimental about the team or an individual player. But be sure to mention progress or an exceptionally good performance.

On a similar note, when a team is trying something new and is struggling to get it, don't show disappointment either in face, gesture or word. Rehearsal space is the time to fuck up. There's ideally going to be LOTS of fuckups. Huge, spectacular fuckups. That means people are trying new things and expanding their repertoire. Encourage that. And if something fucks up, don't beat them up about it. That's counter productive.

4.) Don't Force Your Humility On Your Team.
Sometimes they need a leader. Or a wiseman. Or an advisor. It goes with the job title. Don't waste time and energy, convincing your troupe members that you're just one of them.
Give them the thing that they need, be it advice, judgment, perspective, wisdom, etc and accept that as part of the job.
Beware though, losing yourself in the part and actually demanding respect. Whoooo boy. That is truly the path to the dark side.

5.) Keep Warm Ups Consistent.
It's helpful to the team, to feel consistency starting up the rehearsal. You might be bored as Hell with Big Booty. And maybe a few of the other players are, too. But the Big Booty process gives them stability and comfort that they might not appreciate.
So, be consistent with the warmup games.
(This rule actually came from Fuzzy Gerdes. But what can I say? He's dead right about that one.)

6.) Speak Frankly With The Performers.
Don't bullshit them, either. If it stinks, say it stinks and move on. Mollycoddling someone is a definite morale downer. It says, unintentionally, "You aren't ready for the actual truth of things." And that sucks.

7.) Treat The Ensemble Like They Are Professional Artists and They Will Become Professional Artists.
Given a chance to, people will rise to your high expectations for them. And if they fail, they'll usually get up and try again. And in such ways, people find that they've grown and become a better person for the experience.
For me personally, there's no higher compliment than "artist" for someone who improvises. It says, "You're no hack! You understand what's going on here. And what you're capable of and can, on occasion, make that a reality. It's not just bits for you. You can see the art of the thing."
So, when you begin interacting with people from that default assumption, you'll quickly find yourself dealing with people who are embodying those traits. That's how people begin to realize what their potential is. And that's a very exciting process.
If I did nothing else for this Incubator2 team, I at least gave them permission to be excellent in this field. And that has empowered them to excel in this field. That's a very powerful gift to give somebody.

I'm sure there's more than what I've just mentioned there. But that's just a sample of what I'm learning. If you want to learn more, coach a team for yourself. And if you do, don't beat yourself up for your fuckups, either. In life or in rehearsal. That's counter productive.

Cheers,
Mr. B

Go Smurf Yourself.

Saw this on YouTube and I had to pass it on. Ah, those guys on SNL occasionally hit something very, very right.



Enjoy.

Mr.B

Stroked.

This is one of my favorite Corey Stories. I wanted to get it captured here in my blog before I forget it permanently.

This story happened in roughly 2003, in Chicago, at a busy intersection, right in front of our neighborhood grocery store...

It was a hot summer day and we had a vanload full of groceries with us. We had the windows rolled down and were listening to some bouncy, summer music. I was riding shotgun in my friend Coreys' van. We were in the number 2 space behind another car, waiting for the light to change. Then, we would drive approximately ten feet forward and turn off of that road, headed home. So, not far to go, to get out of a very busy Chicago street and rivers of traffic. Just ten feet.

Corey is famous for his temper and the ease with which is slides from verbal banter to a full-on fist punch to the rib cage. (I swear one of these days, a solid punch from him is actually going to stop my heart, cold.) His favorite hero is The Hulk. And with good reason, Corey likes to smash stuff, on occasion. All in controlled surroundings, of course. But he's the best, if you need something smashed up for you.

The light changed and the old, white car ahead of us did nothing. Absolutely nothing.
The moment when it should've started driving forward, came and passed and now it was very clear that no one in our line was going to be going forward. Corey, being the quick-minded driver that he is, immediately laid on the horn, yelling, "COME ON, MAN! DRIVE!" and then laid a little extra carhorn on top of that, for good measure.

Still the white car didn't move. In his frustration Corey looked at me helplessly, for a little validation. But I was feeling good and disinterested in yelling at stupid drivers, so I decided to make a little joke out of.

"Hey man, " I say, "What if that's some old guy up there who's having some sort of stroke. And the last thing that he hears before he dies, is YOU laying on that horn?" and chuckle a little bit at the morbid thought.

"Oh, I'll show him! I'll stroke him right up his ass!" barked Corey.

We both sat there in the quiet van, as we both repeated the phrase, "I'll stroke him right up his ass" over and over again, in our heads. It sounded like an threat, but had another wierd element to it, that niether of us could place. Finally, it hit me...

"Dude, that sounded a little gay. You're going to "stroke him up his ass? Really?"

Without batting an eye, Corey focused ahead and quietly admitted, "Yeah, dude. I know it was." All of his anger faded away by his own unintentional homosexual faux pas.

The white car finally pulled forward and we drove home, quietly whispering "I'll stroke him right up his ass" under our breadth and laughing each time we said it.

Cheers, Corey!
Mr. B

My new Air Kentucky T-Shirt...

I didn't know this until recently, but between 1979 - 1986 there was an airline that used Louisville, Kentucky as it's hub. It was called Air Kentucky. If you saw the movie, "The Life Aquatic", that was the airline that Owen Wilson flew for. (Terrible Ky dialect for him, by the way. More Tennessee hambone than Kentucky bluegrass, if you ask me.)

Anyways, I found a store online that sells "Air Kentucky" logo stuff. So, I'm going to work this into the budget and treat myself to this T-Shirt. Check it out...



If you want to order one for yourself, click on this link. (On the sidebar of the site that this takes you to, there's all sorts of merchandice that you can buy with the A.K. logo on it. Even stuff for ladies, if you're so inclined.) This logo is a facimile of the logo from the actual airline. Wes Anderson designed his own logo for the movie and you can buy one of those by looking around on the internet. If that sort of distinction is important to you. Personally, I looked at both of them and I like this one more.

For those of you keeping track, this is the second "Life Aquatic" related t-shirt that I've bought for myself. I wear my "Team Zissou" t-shirt with pride. I've got to cool it on Life Aquatic wear, though.

It's becoming a habit now.

I'd also like to get one of those groovy "Gettin' lucky in Kentucky" shirts that I've seen in a movie or something.



Apparently, I'm only comfortable expressing pride in my homestate in the form of ironic t-shirt messages.

Cheers,
Mr.B

Dance, Chicken Boy, Dance!

Over on the Bee Board, I posted this story in a thread about first jobs. It's 100% true from my high school days. Enjoy. (Also, if you are in Louisville, I'm referring, of course, to the Rollo Pollo on Bardstown Rd, in St. Matthews.)

I was a dancing chicken outside a local chicken roasters restaurant for one summer, while in high school.

A friend of mine worked there as a cook and he recommended me for the job because of my theater background. (And because HE didn’t want to do it.) I met with the manager to discuss my fee and he wanted to start me at $12. It was my first meeting with someone who wanted to hire me for an “acting” gig, so I bluffed him and got $15 an hour for a 4 hour shift a day (shorter hours were fine for me.) and a meal before I left each day. I didn’t have to cook or clean or serve people, just dance in my worn-out, threadbare, chicken costume by the side of the road, waving at cars passing through the busy intersection.

It was a tough, terrible job. And I was WAY too into it. Nobody at the chicken roasters had every done the job with enthusiasm before. It was always the shit job that they were forced to do. Stand by the side of a busy interstate, waving at cars going by. But I looked at it as an acting job and was so young that I took it pretty seriously. (I also romantically dreamed that I would become a local sensation, “The Fabulous Dancing Chicken”, maybe earning some media attention for my fancy footwork. Alas, this did not happen.)

I did elaborate pantomimes out there and danced my chicken ass off. I would not only wave a handful of balloons at passing cars but work to get laughs from people stopped at the stoplight. I would take pictures of them with pantomimed cameras and (try to) breakdance for them. So much energy. So much creativity. So unfocused.

When things got too hot for me, and this was summer in a yellow fur costume, I’d go back into the restaurant, hitting the kids at the tables and giving them a little show, and then I would hide out in the walk in freezer, peeling the costume off to freeze my sweat-soaked t-shirt and sipping on a ginormous sweet tea. Ten minutes later, I would suit up and go back out for more shenanigans.

Once, I was doing a bit for a family who were eating chicken and watching me. I pantomimed leaning on the handicapped parking sign, only putting the barest bit of weight on it. But it was rusted throughout the base and I didn’t know that. It leaned a little bit and then broke, falling over onto the hood of someone’s parked car. I didn’t do any damage to the car, but it scared the shit out of me. I picked up the sign and ran off, a very guilty chicken. I hid it behind the walk in cooler and then had to tell the manager that I’d broken his sign. Whoever owned the car didn’t see me knock a big metal sign on it, because nobody complained about it.

I had large beverage drinks thrown at me by passing cars, never with any accuracy. People told me to go “fuck [myself]” and “eat my ass, chicken!” and stuff like that. I got mooned by someone with too much time on their hands. Too much abuse and I’d stop dancing and slink back to the cooler to hide for a bit.

Once, for a funny bit, I got onto a passing public transit bus and danced for the riders. It drove off with me trapped inside, too busy doing bits to see that we’d left the chicken roasters. When I realized what had happened, I was about 6 blocks down the highway. I got off and walked the whole way back, muttering profanity inside my chicken mask.

Twice I passed out from heat stroke. I just got light-headed and fell backwards, hitting my head on the asphalt parking lot. The impact woke me up instantly and I went in both times and sat down until I cooled off a bit. I bet that looked funny from inside the store. One minute he’s dancing, the next, Boom, he falls down for no reason.

The summer ended and I quit the job because school was back in session. This had to be the summer of 91 or 92. The last time I was in Louisville, this past march, 15 years later, we drove past the chicken roasters. They were still open for business and there was someone else out front, in the same wornout chicken costume, waving apathetically as we drove by.

One little bit of trivia for you, Brad Pitt had the very same job when he was a teenager at some California chicken joint. I learned that fact from Us magazine the same summer that I had the job. I thought, “Well, if Brad Pitt did it, how bad could it be?”

100% true.
101% pathetic.
Mr. B



That is EXACTLY what my suit looked like, only dingier from years of use and infrequent washings. Also, the rubber chicken feet were long gone. I wore red Chuck Taylors with my suit.

// My Birth.

This is one of my favorite stories. It is about my birth. I, myself, didn't witness it, as I was busy at the time, learning how to breathe and scream. But I've heard it so many times that I feel like I was there. (Well, more there than I actually was.) Additionally, I've seen the footage and pictures from the day and that really fleshed it out for me.

I was born on August 14th, in 1972 in Eliat, Israel. My mother, Linda, and my father, Jonathan, were both Americans, but they were resolved to have my birth in Israel. You see, in Eliat, Dr. Gowri Motha, a respected obstetrician with some interesting theories on birth had constructed the world's first and last, shark-proof, heated, sanitary water birthing chamber for dolphin-assisted water birth. Which was where I was born.

My mother and father were both hippies. I guess that's the best way to say it. They lived in San Francisco where he worked at a second hand album store and she was a secretary for a company that manufactured sewing machines. My grandparents on my mother's side, though, were very wealthy and they subsidized my parents income in the first years of their marriage.

My mother happened upon an article in Time Magazine about Dr. Motha and her theories on childbirth. Dr. Motha emphasized a lessening of sugar in the pregnant mother's diet along with a healthy exercise regiment. She has been quoted many times talking about the "smooth, gentle birth of a child exiting from a warm, strong, muscular uterine." She also had an exciting theory about dolphins acting as midwifes for human birth. Dolphins and Humans had a well-known natural affinity for one another. And dolphins naturally acted as midwifes for each other when they gave birth in the ocean and in captivity. (They still do.) Dr. Motha said that "dolphins sense a mother's contractions through sonar and assist her by sending back sonar waves that calm a mother as she gives birth." Her ambitious plan was to build the glass sea pool in Israel, if only funding could be found.

Which was where my grandparents came in. Urged on by my mother's insistence and eventually a threat that if they didn't fund Dr. Mothas project, my mother would raise their only grandchild to be a Republican. (Things were different back then.) My grandparents eventually crumbled and directed $50,000 to Dr. Motha's project. The Lawrence and Nora Sullivan Dolphin-Assisted Birthing Center still stands in Eliat, today.

My mother knew, as she helped fund the building of the birthing center in Eliat that she was with child and time was of the essence. She got very proactive about the center's construction, even moving to Israel, to supervise the project. She picked out the coral pink color that still covers the center's exterior walls and fencing. She also worked hard on the design and the construction of the glass-walled birthing tank. And indeed, once it was finished and assembled in the Red Sea, my mother was the first person to swim in it.

The dolphins arrived in June from the West German National Zoo. They were purchased outright using the centers funds. The three animals were actually airlifted in a long-distance flight from Bonn to Tel Aviv and then helicoptered to Eliat. My mother met them at the airport. Dr. Motha chose names for the dolphins from a book that she was reading at the time. They were named Kili, Fili and Bilbo Baggins. Since they all three looked alike, the researchers at Dr. Motha's center frequently interchanged the names.

The dolphins were installed in their new home and were given regular swimming and exercise time with my mother, while other clients for the center were located. Interested mothers, intrigued by the idea of mixing dolphins with child birth, slowly began appearing at the center in Eliat. All in all, 30 expectant couples arrived to take part in the experiment.

My father arrived in Eliat in July, ready for my arrival into the world.

Shortly thereafter, the Israeli Ministry of Health Resources got wind of the center's work and forbid the usage of the tank. They'd determined that the water was not sanitary enough for the emerging child and to curb lifelong afflictions, ordered Dr. Motha NOT to allow a single mother to birth in the tank. They tried to take the dolphins away too, but that proved to be too expensive and time consuming so Kili, Fili and Bilbo Baggins were left in their tank, with the strict instructions that they were not allowed to midwife any human children. Most of the other couples slowly returned to their previous homes, disappointed.

Not my mother, though. She stayed at the center, assuring the MOHR officials that she was going to give birth to me on dry land, per their request. When she went into labor on that warm, August night, the 13th, she calmly got out of bed in her room, woke my father and said, "Get Dr. Motha and her team. I am going to the tank." My father scrambled to assemble the birth team.

My mother walked slowly, but determinedly down to the beach of the center, climbed the stairs up to the side of the tank and sat down to greet the waiting dolphin midwives. They bobbed their heads playfully and nuzzled her bare feet. She slid into the warm waters and rolled onto her back, resting her head on the readied flotation device and placing her legs up into the birthing stirrups. In such a position, she was prepared to eject me into the world, comfortably floating in the warm, dolphin pool. Occasionally, one of the swimming dolphins would swim by, rubbing their sleek, soft bodies on my mothers hand. When Dr. Motha and her team arrived with my father, they found my mother quietly singing The Carpenters song, "Close to you" to herself.

The preparations were made. Lighting was turned on, even inside the tank. My mother was attached to monitoring devices using surgical tape. My father slid into the pool and walked over to my mother, his bare chest full of thick black hair. He stood behind my mother, holding her arms and whispering loving, careful words of support to her. The videographer began the recording equipment and the two team photographers hovered up on the tanks deck, capturing the event. Dr. Motha herself, slid into the tank, taking position to receive me into the world. My mother had dilated and her water had broken, releasing blood, amniotic fluid and other materials into the tank. The waters of the Red Sea had washed them all away, though. My father noted later, that once the amniotic fluids were released into the tank, he did notice the dolphins growing increasingly more playful and nudging him frequently, under the waters.

My birth, the actual incident of my birth, was otherwise uneventful. My body weight was low, because of my mother's low-sugar diet. Which made my actual entry smoother and easier for everyone. She drifted quietly in the tanks, grunting occasionally, but mostly humming quietly to herself, enjoying the sonar stimulants from the circling dolphins below. No, I quickly slid out into the world, caught by Dr. Motha who cleaned me off, snipped my umbilical cord and tied off both ends. She passed me to a waiting, human, midwife, who cleaned me further and checked my airtubes for blockage. My first sounds on the audio recording is a perturbed cough and then a loud, strong cry. On the same recording, you can hear Dr. Motha cooing at me, in Yiddish.

My mother was assisted exiting the tank. Her passage was made difficult by the slippery edge of the tank, her own weakness and the nearly whirlpool speed of the dolphins circling below. Aside from my father, nobody else noticed the change in the dolphins behavior. They seemed almost agitated about something. Even Dr. Motha made it out of the tank, with relative ease. She was anxious to see the newborn child and mother together.

On the audio tape, you can hear my father's growing concern. "Hey. What's going on with these dolphin's? They're gettin' sorta wound up, you know?!?" he says. "Ow! They headbutted my knee. Stupid animals! Knock it off, willya? I'm trying to get out of this - Dammit. Hey! HEY! HEY!" and the dolphins grabbed my fathers pajama bottoms in their mouths and took him under the water's surface. The video recording doesn't capture this as it's focused on me and my mother, but the audio does and you can hear the splash of the dolphins taking my father.

Panic happens next. People scramble to get into the pool or to figure out what's going on. There's a fear that a shark has somehow gotten into the tank. Someone even says, "Is it a shark?" out loud. When my father resurfaces in the middle of the tank, you can hear him yell, "These damn dolphins are goin' bonkers! They just took me under!" and then they take him under again.

"Get the mother and child off of the deck. Something is wrong with the dolphins," says Dr. Motha and my mother makes her way slowly down the stairs, a midwife carries me beside her.

"Ah Jesus! (cough) These dolphins! (sputter) Get em off of me." and then he is butted again, by a dolphin.

Under the water, the dolphins headbutt my father and rub their sleek bodies against his. One would drag him to the bottom of the pool and another one would grab him and pull him back to the top and slap him with their tails. They passed him around like dogs playing with a ragdoll. All the while, the dolphins seem to be dragging him to the far side of the tank.

Once they get him there, their plan finally becomes clear. My father was forcibly pressed against the tank, above the water line and the dolphins slid up to him and thrashed wildly, their bodies pressed against his. Water splashed all over the place in a wild froth. They dolphins were making love to my father and he realized it too.

"Ah! Get off! Get off! These dolphins are trying to hump me! Get off!" In the video he struggles against them, but with unsure footing and nothing to grab hold of, the dolphins completely dominate him. He is completely at the mercy of their crazed, sexual domination. "Help! Help me! I'm being raped by these dolphins! Agh! I can feel their dolphin schlongs! Help me!"

And Dr. Motha, helpless on the side of the tanks says very astutely, "I think that he's being molested by Bilbo Baggins, actually. Kili and Fili seem to have ejaculated already." The first time anyone identified the dolphins correctly.

The encounter ends in with a slap and a thrash. Bilbo Baggins the dolphin has his dolphiny orgasm and the drifts away into the tank. My father, tired, angry and humiliated uses the tank wall to clamber around to the deck and climb out, his pajama pants long gone. "They didn't get INSIDE me. They just dry-humped me for a while." he says, and then with finality, "Fucking dolphins!"

He's given a towel and taken back into the center to meet me and my mother for the first time. Nobody laughs about it, then. The mood is concerned and solemn. Later, when the pictures and videos are reviewed, I'm sure they laughed plenty.

The center eventually closed and was sold to the Isreali MOHR to be used as an instructional facility for new mothers. Kili, Fili and Bilbo Baggins were sold to a zoo in Berlin, in East Germany. Dr. Motha moved to London, where she still has a thriving practice today. I still get birthday cards from her, 30 years later. In the building that bears my grandparents name, you can see plenty of framed art of dolphins, but you can only receive instruction on normal, dry-land birthing techniques. The birthing tank was pulled from the Red Sea by a crane and parked behind the facility. In the ensuing years, teens have shot the glass with a variety of firearms and all that's left is the old, rusty frame. I was the first and last child born in the tank.

A few years later, when he got over the trauma of being molested by dolphins, my dad got a tattoo on his right bicep of a blue dolphin inside one of those red circles with a bar through it. It means, "No Dolphins Allowed". Not a whole lot of people know what it means. Those of us who do, appreciate his good sense of humor, though.



Kili, Fili and Bilbo Baggins in a picture taken at the East German Zoo, circa 1975.

Home (again).

I saw my new apartment again for the first time, last night.

For those who aren't in the know, I'm moving in with one of my two best friends, Joe, next month. I think that I am moving on the middle weekend of the month. Probably on the 17th. And then taking that weekend off to unpack and get moved into the space. Loads of books and DVDs to unpack and place in just the proper place.

It's a nice little two bedroom apartment on Lincoln Ave. It's up on the third floor, so I will be living in an apartment with sunlight again.

I'll acquire a private landing for coats and bags and such, a new television room, a sitting room, a computer office that will be in a converted closet, Joe's private office, a smallish bathroom and a bedroom with two windows in it. On one side of our apartment, every window opens up on a solid brick wall a foot and a half away.
On the other side of the apartment, all windows open up on blue skies and the barest view of the next door rooftop.

I have carpeting again. For the first time in four years.

I'm also closer to the grocery store than I was. And there's a greasy spoon diner across the street from us. North, up on Lincoln ave, there's the Davis theater, where I occasionally like to go see movies. And there's also a large branch of the library, a block away from my apartment. And also a park nearby.

I'm two blocks south of Lincoln Park, which is a great area of town.

And best of all, my new sitting room has two windows that are the perfect height for a little basset hound dog to peer down on the street from and watch traffic and people go by. After two years living in the basement apartment, Maggie gets sunlight and a view again. And I'm very, very happy about that. I think that this will be a good move for us both.

Yesterday, two friends of mine, Derek and Andrea descended on the apartment and gave it a MAJOR cleaning. They also moved furniture around to a tasteful design and restored Joe's bedroom to a workable condition. Previously, Joe's aesthetic design was best summed described as "6 inches of dirty clothes and other detritus covering every square inch of his bedroom floor". We were seriously considering nominating him for a visit from Queer Eye. Right now, as I am writing this, his bed is made, his clothes are bagged up, his pictures are all tastefully hung up on the wall and you can see carpeting again. It's pretty nice.

My room is practically empty. It has a bookshelf and a box spring mattress that I've inherited from the previous tenant. I'm going to paint it right around the first of next month. I'm thinking a deep, dark shade of rich blue. With white trim. I like the sound of that. And with two weeks before I move in, I'll very happily have plenty of time to do that before I ever move a box into place.

I also have this crazy idea of hanging a rope and pulley system above the back porch window. For no other purpose than to lower trash bags down to the backyard for safe placement in the dumpsters. We can either use this very smart pulley system or lug them down three flights of stairs with many akward twists and turns. The pulley system sounds smarter and smarter, every time I think about it. I can rig that up, in a single afternoon.

I'm using a professional moving company for this move too. A friend has recommended Moishe's Moving Company to me and I'm giving them my business. With the minimal amount of shit that I'll be moving, combined with the short move distance, I anticipate that the whole thing will run me a little over $200. And that's not too bad. It's absolutely worth it to NOT have to move anything myself. (Well, except Maggie, my plant and my glass picture frames and dishware. Which can be done in half a full load into the new space.) And I'm taking a day off from work after the move to unpack and get a little settled in. Nice. I'm really looking forward to that cozy, settling in, time.

Joe and I are both looking at this as not just an apartment move, but as a LifeStyle Upgrade.

We both want our living space to be an open, inviting space for friends to visit. We want to live in a place that doesn't smell like farts, or locker rooms or unwashed dogs. We want an apartment that we can bring a girl back to, without having to scramble to hide crap or apologize for our lack of taste in framed artwork or our unfortunate poster choices. We also want our apartments to be inviting to our visiting family members. To show them that we're adults and can take care of ourselves and live in an adult apartment perhaps without all of the junk that we used to have around our previous apartments.

A place we can be proud of.
A place that we can call "home".

Last night, as Derek and I knelt by the living room window, leaned out and looked down on that the street, I could see that it was lively and safe and well lit. Happy couples strolled by, enjoying the warmish weather. A band of free-roaming hippys wandered by, casually joking with one another. I knew then that this was a good move for me and Joe and Maggie. We will spend many happy afternoons in that apartment, living well.

More to come, as I get closer to the move, I am sure...

Mr. B



If you stepped up and walked into this picture and kept walking forward, down the street, you'd find my new apartment about two blocks down, on the left. And because it's such a safe neighborhood, you could walk around here at night and you'd be just fine.

DON'T WATCH THIS!

Unless you want a bar fight to break out...



I warned you!

Mr. B

Speedy. Lemoney.

It's funny how easily I give this blog over to silly things like new DVD releases and movie posters, but the really important things don't get mentioned in here.

-One of my best friends, Corey, moves away and I go from seeing him all the time to every three or four months or so and I don't mention it.

-I might be moving in with another of my best friends, Joe, in July and I don't mention it.

-My team, International Stinger, appears to be quietly falling apart because everyone is so much busier with other projects and I don't mention it.

-I'm running for an Executive Position at The Playground and I might win it (despite the fact that my rival candidate is my cartoonishly, over the top, arch enemy at the theater. My Lex Luthor. This guy harasses me online and just yesterday, I shit you not, wrote erotic, gay fan fiction about me. FOR THE SECOND TIME!!!) I think I might beat him, nonetheless, but I don't mention it here.

Well, enough of that.

I actually do have something that is sort of important to me and I want to discuss it a bit. And because of specific events from last night, my feelings on the matter are fresh and relevant. Here goes...

Last night, at the Playground, in the second slot of a four slot show, an improv team experienced a quiet bomb going off. It was a REALLY big deal for these guys and they may or may not recognize it today, but they grew in leaps and bounds last night. And all I did was control their lights and sounds for them.

This team, Speed Lemon, was in a very different place two months ago. They were over a year old. Had shed off a few members and were down to 6. They were cancelling rehearsals. And generally feeling bad about the entire experience. But like troopers, they were soldiering on.

The problem was, they were a bad fit with their coach. It was the coach that they were initially partnered with via the Playground Theater's Incubator process. A nice guy and an accomplished improviser on his own. He was, nonetheless, having trouble connecting with his team and sharing what he had learned with them. His particular process was more emo/actorly and while that's fine in moderation, he focused too much on that and didn't give them time to play and have fun. So much time spent examining their actual emotions. No time spent cutting loose and being silly. (You have to have both, or no progress can be made. Too much emo work? Bored, unhappy actors. Too much silly? Unfocused, sloppy work. Balance is key.)

So, that's where they were when one of the improvisers on the team approached me about how the theater could support them in changing coaches. I was, at the time, working as the theater's Incubator Liaison. That question was one of the central issues of my job. Supporting the Incubator teams, so that they could make this change without risking falling apart entirely or being without options. I gave the team my time and said, "If you vote, as a group, to make a change, I'll cover your rehearsals, acting as a temp coach, until you A.) complete a sit in process and increase your numbers and B.) try a few coaches and find the one that fits your work, the most." I was/and am currently, signed on to be their temp coach. That started on the first Sunday evening of April. Today is mid-may. Roughly 6 weeks since I stepped in as the temp coach.

My immediate vibe on the team is that they were a little shaken by the process of losing a coach and absolutely desperate to feel good about being on the team again. In the improv community, losing a coach, either by choice or by circumstance is a pretty big deal. Some teams never recover from it. For others, it's the beginning of a downward spiral that eventually breaks the team up. The individual players feel cast aside, unimportant and unloved as an ensemble. Adrift. Marked.

I know, because my first Incubator team, Swiss Family Robots, dealt with that twice. Our first coach, Becky, left us after a little over a year, to go produce her own original shows. Our second coach, Dave, worked with us for a just under a year and then moved to L.A. Both moves where good for them, but both were very difficult for the team. The second one broke us up entirely.

So, my first order of business was to begin relaxing and having fun with this team. To give them the safe enviroment where they could reconnect with the good parts of being on this particular ensemble and where they could feel free to express affection and respect for one another. I worked to create an enviroment where they were able to believe in themselves again. I reminded them that they are a year old as a group and as such, are well past the "getting to know you" phase. That they were ready for focus on form and performance and to begin performing like an older, advanced team. They were ready to hear this and began to believe it.

I noticed immediate improvement. Not to give the impression that things were bad when I walked in the door, they were just a little repressed and hesitant. Those guys shed those off immediately and began playing their asses off in rehearsal.
The smart, witty players hit the stage as hard a they could and played as hard as they could.
The supporters on the team jumped right in and explored that world with them.
Everyone began to bring their "A" game. And if we were playing a game, they really, really attacked the game and played it as hard as they could. Such smart, smart players. Waiting to be challenged. And to have their coach recognize when they nailed it and to encourage them when they headed in the "right" directions and to forgive them when they tripped up. In such ways, safe, productive enviroments are created in rehearsal.

They immediately located a very strong candidate for their sit in process. Meg brought wit and charm to the stage. She was attentive to the details of a shows imaginary world. She could immediately sense the game and heighten it. But best of all, she loved the work and she loved this team and her quiet offstage giggles endeared her to the cast.

They also brought in a new guy, Adam and a new girl, Roxanne. And with those additions, their numbers would become 9. Instead of 6. A solid, functioning, productive improv team. Both Adam and Roxanne are getting more and more confident, playing with the team and are acclimating well to where the group is headed, as an ensemble.

And they have a form. Their FIRST form. Up until now, without much guidance from the coach, they were just exploring montages and not feeling good about them. Their old coach didn't have much use for montages and silliness. So, he didn't bring them anything else to try. And they were adrift.

I brought them a game that I remembered from IO. A level 3 game that could VERY easily adapted to a 20 minute show. Longstoryshort: It's the creation of and the population of a small town, somewhere in the world. It forces the players to find their characters quickly and explore their rich lives together. And it allows for time skips forwards and backwards. Secrets. Lies. Hopes. Dreams. Etc. And this team's natural interest in vivid, interesting characters and their propensity for tying things up neatly, on their own, made me think that they would be a good fit with this form. And after a few rouch and tumble efforts to master it, they're making real progress with the form.

Which brings us to last night...

Their first performance of the new form, in front of a live audience.
We rehearsed the timing of the opening a few times, to get them used to the lights and sound elements that they added. At show time, I warmed them up and we had fun fooling around. We ran through the elements of the form, touching on the lessons that we'd learned about it, in rehearsal. (Less Conflict, More Gentle Kindness for one another, Listening. Making use of the location and these people's relationships to one another.)

They took the stage and we got the suggestion of a small town in Illinois. (Which taught me that we might need to tool with the opening question, a little bit and look for a location outside of IL.) Paul charmingly interviewed her a little bit about her town, while I searched for a song to begin with. I chose "Weapons of Deceit" from the Farhenheit 911 soundtrack. A simple instrumental that moves along at a decent clip and hints at something slightly nefarious lurking in the background. It's funny, but once I locked into that and I gave them their lights, the form took over and the show just happened.

The form has essentially four parts. The opening. The first Act of scenes (where we meet the characters and learn about them). The second act of scenes (where we see complications or enablements happening.) and the Closing Scene. (where some things get resolved and everyone appears once more to tie up loose ends and see where people's fates lead them.)

They nailed EVERY one of them.

The opening was smooth and they couldn't tell from the stage, but they looked SOOOOOOO good in those lights, with that sound behind them.
The first act was smart and interesting. They presented characters that all had very clear wants and needs. Some of them wanted to escape. Some of them wanted love. A lot of them expressed interest in one another, romantically. And the mayor told us that there would be some sort of Gala, at the end of the show.
The second act, romances were denied, identities were mistaken and one young boy expressed his fervent desire to get out of town and go somewhere remotely elsewhere.
In the third act, everyone geared up for the gala.
And in the final scene, they were AT the gala and we saw people coming together or being denied from one another. I kicked on the disco ball and romantic music and they danced together, in the dark light and then BLACKOUT on a good laugh line from Daflos.

And in such ways, does a team step quietly forth and say, "We have something to say, in an interesting way and we're going to present it for you, now." It's not often that you realize a team experiencing a milestone when it happens. But I immediately knew that this was a big deal for them.

Outside, we met up and discussed the show. I sensed that they were a little trepidatious. It wasn't the non-stop laugh riot that they're conditioned to accept as the mark of accomplishment. But I ran briefly through the show orders and showed them how their patient early scene work brought them to a really, really smart, subtle ending and finally shared with them the level of their accomplishment.

We're not there JUST to make people laugh. A baby can fart in the bathtub and THAT will make people laugh. Surely, as fully formed adults with life experience behind us and our masterful vocabularies to express them, we can offer something more to the audience. We are, in all honesty, storytellers and artists. We weave words to create a place and characters and a plotline, where before there was just a bare stage. We have the capabilities not just to entertain, but to enlighten and touch people at the core of their souls. And if we can, occasionally, reach that point, we are artists and our work is good and valid.

And that's what they touched upon, last night. They brought a coherent, sensible story to the stage. They started off by making promises to their audience with the lights and the sound and they delivered on it by gathering these highly separate threads and tying them all together so neatly, by the show's end.

By the end of the show, they WERE the advanced, smart, subtle players that I told them that they were, at the beginning of our process together. And that was with just a rudimentary, first stab at the form. Imagine how GOOD they can be, once they start OWNING this form for themselves and evolving it into something even better.

Anyways, I'm very, very proud of those guys today. I wasn't up there onstage with them. And I can't take credit for their accomplishment. In a business that's so ego oriented, it's a refreshing change to be a part of someone else's success, without stealing the spotlight from them. Today, I am proud of their work. And the amazing strides that they've made in just 6 short weeks. I couldn't be happier for them. For me, this has been an incredible learning experience. I can't wait to see where we go from here.

And now I've written about something that's sort of important to me...

Good Shows to You All,
Mr. B

Something Super For You...

Wow.



June 30th, I know where I will be.

COB

Some Things That I Have To Go Buy...

Well, I've held off long enough.

Looks like I have to go buy this...



Because this is coming out on July 18.



And I suppose I'll have to pick up one of these some time soon. It releases next week, on May 23.



Oh and it looks like I better enjoy the Hell out of Season 3, because HBO didn't order any beyond that. Season 3 returns on June 11th, by the way.

Whoops! Looks like August 1st, I have to pick THIS up too...



Reworking the budget,
Mr.B

It's not a date, though...

Ugh.

So complicated.

I just wrote somebody the most convoluted, complicated invitation to hang out, that I've ever written.

Here's the deets. I'll try to keep it short.

There's this Girl, see?
(Every one of my blog entries should just begin with that sentance. Everything worth talking about, begins with a girl.)

Anyways, there's this girl, see?
I don't know her very well. But she seems really pleasant and nice. She's an improviser, here in town. But she's relatively new to the game. (So, you've never heard of her, so stop trying to figure out who she is.)

I see her around the theater, from time to time and occasionally I find a chance to talk to her. Sometimes, I don't. But the last few weeks, she's sort of found me backstage and we've chatted a bit. But because I think she's sort of cute and because that makes me nervous and because we don't have anything other than the theater in common, that's all that we talk about.
I'm pleasant and welcoming. I'd very clearly like to talk to her about something more. But when she's looking at me and smiling at me, expectantly, I just dry up. Poof, nothing comes to mind. Because what I REALLY want to say is, "Has anyone ever accurately described to you just how lovely your smile is?"

I don't ask her this, because I know someone has.
Her current boyfriend.
Another improviser.
Only this guy is smart, sexy, thin and very, very cool. So, while I'm talking to her, I'm also thinking about this "cool guy" and wondering why she's talking to me. (I secretly tell myself that it's because she doesn't know anyone else around.)

Recently, in our conversation, we got around to discussing a mutual friend of ours and how we both like hanging out with this guy. She suggested that perhaps we both could hang out with him, sometime. So, I gave her my email address and assumed that she would forget about it and let it go. That was a month ago.

Today, I get an email from her, asking if I was still interested in getting together with them. And I said, yes, and then because I'm tired of not knowing what to say to her, asked her if she wanted to meet up at the theater tomorrow night, to head over to our local pub for a cocktail and chat.

And that, Dear Reader, was the afore-mentioned intricately worded invitation.

Because I wanted her to know that I genuinely wanted to know more about her as a person ...
But I didn't want her to think that I was just gathering intel. for some future coupling...
Because I wanted her to know that I know she's got a boyfriend and I'm cool with that...
But I didn't want her to know that I knew about the boyfriend, before she'd told me, because THAT indicates that I'm doing research on her. Which I am...
Because I ACTUALLY do fancy her and would like to leave the occasion open for some future coupling...
But I am not expecting anything right now and indeed, am entirely incapable of expressing casual, friendly interest in someone that I find attractive without turning into a complete mongoloid.

Ask me what I want from tomorrow, and it's a quick weeknight drink, sipped over an hour or two, and good conversation.
You know, the "getting to know you stuff", like "Where do you work?" and "Where are you from?" and "How're things going?" and "Isn't Bush a dillhole?" and all the small, casual bits of information that I'd already know, if I'd ever been able to talk to her before, like a normal human being. And then at the end of the night, we split the tab, and don't feel self consious about why we're there or what's expected of us. And we have a friendly shake or hug or whatnot and part ways, happier for it.

I don't want a date.
I want a conversation.

And there's no way to casually ask for that, without it sounding like a date.

Which is, I am sure, what it sounds like I've asked her for anyways...

I did drop some subtle hints in there. For one, we're just hitting the local pub on a weeknight and I'm clearly not going out of my way to court her. And I've phrased it to give the impression that what we would be there for, would be to see what's going on, at the Town Hall.
Maybe they're too subtle. I just didn't want to hastily add "THIS ISN'T A DATE!" which also implies "Although, I'd certainly LIKE to have one with you, a dooby dooby doo!"

Who knows what she'll say?
It would be fun to hang out with her.
But If she's wary of what my intentions are, I'll understand if she makes excuses or somehow gets out of it. It's an awkward request. That much is certain. Despite all of my efforts to cleverly word my actual intentions, it's still an awkward, forced rush of a request. And it's not how people do things, these days.

Ah well. It's sent. There's nothing to do about it now, but whine to your blog about it. I'll hear something back from her today or tomorrow.

I'll mention below, in the Comments Section, what she says. I think it'll be a polite denial. It's probably what I would do.

Ugh.

Lord, but I'm so awkward around women.

Mr.B

My Workable Philosophy.

A good friend of mine gave me this message on a fridge magnet.

It actually altered my world view a little bit.
A fridge magnet altered my world view.
I don't know whether to marvel at the simplicity of that or the flimsiness of my core beliefs.

Here it is...



That fridge magnet is laying down some Cosmic Truth, there.

Cheers,
Mr. B

I Want To Be Superman.

"Faster than a speeding bullet.
More powerful than a locomotive.
Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.

Look! Up in the sky!
It's a bird. It's a plane. It's Superman!

Yes, it's Superman - strange visitor from another planet who came to Earth with powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men. Superman - who can change the course of mighty rivers, bend steel with his bare hands, and who, disguised as Clark Kent, mild mannered reporter for a great metropolitan newspaper, fights the never ending battle for Truth, Justice and the American Way."

(click on the above quote to actually hear the introduction to the George Reeves Superman tv show from the 50's.)

He was always my favorite hero. And he still is.
He's good and strong and honest and noble in a way that we can only strive to be.
More than his strength, I wish I had his integrity. His confidence. His clarity.
This is Superman as I know him.
With Art provided by the AMAZINGLY TALENTED Alex Ross.

Enjoy.

Mr.B

(click on any picture to view a larger version of it.)

Bad, Jewel, Bad!

If I had a dollar for everytime I've come home from rehearsal to find THIS playfully prancing around my living room...



"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd be home so soon.
I just wanted to try your jacket on. I missed you.
Don't worry, I'll take it off.
I still have on these little sport shorts and my dirty-girl eyeliner!
So, I won't be TOTALLY naked."

Celebrity Crushes

This won't be a very long blog entry. Apologies in advance for that.

This past Friday night, whilst she and I drove from a post-show dinner, to pick up her girlfriend and then to a friends birthday party, my friend Kathy and I talked about Celebrity Crushes.

Kathy is enjoying a Free Month of Netflix to get her Jodie Foster fix out of the way. I think she has 3 videos right now and 2 of them are Foster flicks. I can see her point. I think Foster has beautiful eyes. She's a lovely woman. (I think I saw her topless in some silly 80's movie once and that killed my crush for her. She's much more attractive, when clothed.)

Kathy asked me who my Celebrity Crush is. I had to admit that I didn't really have one. I went through a phase in college where I was obsessed with Sheryl Crow. I had a poster of her up in my room. And I saw her in concert once (the week after she won the Grammy, so people were pretty nutty in there.) But that phase passed in a month or two and it seems silly to me now, that I was ever that into her.

I guess I feel so far removed from celebrities that there's no point in really considering them as a love interest. I might as well lust after Ghandi or Queen Victoria or Batgirl. There's simply never going to be a chance for me to be in a room with them, much less taking a full run, nude belly flop onto their naked, willing form. So, why waste time on it?

There's no celebrity that I fancy so much, that I would buy a product with their face on it. Or pay to see their movie, if the story doesn't interest me. Or bit torrent download her album, if it interested me. Also, with the computer and the internet being what it is, if there's any current media figure that I am curious to see nude, I only have to Google them to see that. And once my curiosity is satisfied, I lose interest in them. God Bless the Internet, eh?

So, no celebrity crushes for me. I suspect that even if I ever became famous and had access to these famous people, that wouldn't change for me. In my game, it's personality that's key and there stands a very good chance that the pretty little checkout girl at the local pharmacy has more to say to me than Cameron Diaz.

All that said, I think Tilda Swinton is amazingly beautiful.


(That's a picture from an art exhibit that she did. Not a still photo from some softcore film, you pervo.)

And this is her as Gabriel in "Constantine". (20 minutes of decent movie stretches over an hour thirty of crapola. Best watched in fast forward, unless Swinton is in the scene.) This is her again, below, as the angel Gabriel.



Um, also, I would be remiss, if I didn't mention my tiny crush on Jewel Staite, too. She played Kaylee, the engineer, on Firefly. She must be pretty good with machines, because she turns my crank.


She keeps insisting that we should be boyfriend and girlfriend, but I have to turn her down. No woman can tame this wild bronco.

Cheers all,
Mr. B

// Cover the Distance.

Just a quick reminder. This is a Slash. And it's fictional. It's meant to capture a mood or a feeling or an interesting turn of phrase. It's not about any particular person, place or thing.

Thanks,
Mr. B

"I'll just say this once. It feels like it's just hanging here between us, waiting to be said, so I will just say it. You can listen. And after I say this and the words are hanging in the air between us, let's see where we stand and if it doesn't change things between us.

I am over here.
And you are over there.

I like being beside you.
You like being beside me.

I can't go over there to be with you.
But you can come over here to be with me.

Please come over here and be with me.

Cover the distance.
Take the first step.
Move Forward.
Put down the heavy things that weigh you down.
Cut the ties that bind you to that place.
Bring the things that mean something to you.

I will make room for you.
I'll clear out all the clutter and scoot over in the bed.
I have drawers open and waiting for your things.
I keep things clean and tidy, so that you'll feel comfortable.
I will bring you the things that please you.

There are people for us to meet together.
And places for us to go together.
And things for us to see together.
Memories to make together.

Two independant lives waiting to be lived parallel to each other.

If you'll only cover the distance.
I would do it for you, if I could.
But we both know that I can't.
So, it has to be up to you to do this.

You are over there.
I am over here."

Please come over here.

M.U.S.C.L.Eing in on MySpace...

I don't have a MySpace account.

My improv team, International Stinger, does.

I actually set it up so that we could post our shows, in case folks wanted to read our bulletins and come check us out. And also so that we would have a place for interested non-improvisers to come learn a little bit about us. (So much cheaper than paying for a website and hosting it for a year. AND paying every time you want to update something. Or having to learn how to actually program stuff.) MySpace for bands, troupes and whatnot is just the best way to get the word out about your troupe.

Or to advertise yourself, if you want to.

Me? I just don't want an individual webpage for myself. I put so much time and energy into this blog. THIS is my MySpace equivalent. It expresses who I am much more than a MySpace page ever would. And honestly, I don't think I have the energy to maintaine both of them. One of them would just wither away from lack of interest. I just know that to be true.

Especially after the day that I've had today on MySpace.

Over on the Bee Board, there was a flurry of activity around my buddy Mark's declaration that he had created a page and wanted to add as many friends as possible. Before the day was over, he had 45 some odd friends.

To add to his count, I logged into the International Stinger account and invited him, too. I looked at his collection of friends and saw a few folks that I like and wanted to link to. I sent invitations to them.
Which lead me to look around their friends and start inviting THOSE people that I know.
Which lead me to look at THEIR friends and so on.

An hour later and I LITERALLY had to stand up and walk away from the computer. I'd invited nearly 40 people to become friends with International Stinger. Some of them signed up. The rest were invitations waiting to be answered.

I recognized the feeling that I was having instantly.

In middle school, me and my buddies were OBSESSED with collecting Enormous collections of M.U.S.C.L.E. figures. These hard rubber, bright pink, oddly shaped wrestler figures. You'd get 3 or 4 to a pack and for a summer, every bit of cash that I had was spent on MUSCLE figures.

You couldn't DO anything with them. They were hard plasticized rubber and wouldn't even bend properly.

So, I provided names and personalities for them all. And I acted out their Titanic Wrestling Matches all by myself, providing narration, direction and voices for their every move. (That was the summer that I flirted with a fascination with all forms of wrestling.)

Eventually, that fad passed and I moved onto some other plastic "crack". GI Joe, I think. I traded nearly all of my M.U.S.C.L.E men for a decent sized Gi Joe starter kit and built it up from there. Even as late as 2000, when I cleaned some boxes out of my parents basement, I found a few MUSCLE figures rattling around in them. I understand that there's quite a tidy market for them, but I haven't investigated that.

The feeling that I felt from my encounter with MySpace, was the feeling that I HAD to sit there and click on MySpace profiles until I had EVERY PERSON I KNOW ON MYSPACE. I felt the onrush of purely focused, OCD attack coming on. Given the chance, I'd sit at that desk through a raging fire or a blustery tornado, as long as my computer remained linked to MySpace, allowing me to invite people onto our account.

As I said before, I pushed my chair back and stood up, stretching my back. I had lost 50 minutes to MySpace. 50 minutes irretrievably lost to the MySpace experience. Christ, I could've hammered out an entire blog entry in that time.

And I believe now, more than ever, that my not having a MySpace page is a good thing. If I had one, I'd surely neglect this blog, neglect work, neglect sleep and meals and sit at a computer, endlessly picking and repicking the "proper" 12 picturess to best represent me.

Because I "gotta collect them all"!!!

Cheers,
Mr.B

Washed Out.

I'm posting this, to expand a bit on the previous entry, but also to provide a bumper at the top of the blog. That monster of an entry is just terrible. And by posting this, I move it on down the line a little bit.

A very good friend of mine (an old, old friend actually) read that entry and wrote me one of the kindest, most personal, letter of reflection on that entry. She talked about losing love and how you never REALLY let it go. She talked about a love that she lost and how it affects her current life. And she talked about how we, as human beings, deal with that. Big things talked about in easily understood ways.

In my response to her, I mentioned my new theory on love. Something that I just recently put together. I thought I might recount it here and maybe some part of it will resonate with you. (You might've heard something like this before. It's new to me.)

Paul Simon says, "Losing love is like a window in your heart. Everybody sees you're blown apart."

In my opinion, the love that we carry around and offer to other people is more like an old shirt. When I imagine it, I see a long sleeve, button down winter shirt. Very warm. Very strong. Stain Resistant, even.
When we first discover it and offer it to someone, the color is so vibrant and the material is strong. It's the kind of love that the recipient wants to show off to the world and never take off. A Big Love.
And then, as time passes and something goes wrong, as it often does, it's like a nick or fray of some of the threads. And a few repeated washings. And the color is a little dimmer and the material is not as strong.
After a long lifetime of this, the die fades almost completely and the shirt takes some serious damage. It bears long cuts that have been roughly sewn back together. And in some places, the material is so threadbare that it's barely holding together at all.
It may still be a very good shirt. And to someone, it may be repairable, wearable and worth the love that some very special people reserve for Old Things. But to the owner of that shirt, it's a faded out, washed out version of the thing that it used to be. Old pictures and love notes float around and you can see in them how young and vibrant the shirts color once was. Maybe only the owner of the shirt can appreciate how it has aged. And what has been lost.

As we get older, maybe this what we have to offer another human being.
Maybe this is an accurate reflection of how we emotionally age.
We start out so strong and vibrant and impervious. And thousands of angry words later, the small and big betrayals take their toll and you never do quite heal from them all. Some dings and scratches and missing chunks you carry around with you forever.

At least, this is how I feel about it today.
Ask me tomorrow and you may get a different answer altogether.

Maybe I need to stop listening to that damned Damien Rice CD...

Working all of this out,
Mr. B

One Year and One Day.

WARNING:
I feel obligated to warn you that this is a deeply personal entry. It deals with anger, loss and grief. For some people, these are repellant emotions and are just exceptionally unattractive. If you're one of those people, please just skip this whole entry. I'm trying to work something out here. To capture something. To explain something. And it's a raw, bloody mess.

It's also really poorly written.

So, maybe skip ahead and enjoy a nice Superman movie trailer and forget the heavy stuff, okay?



Funny how things that you thought you'd buried pop back up...

That's the last note that I received from the last girl that I ever reall, truly loved.

She gave me that in a packet that she sent me which also contained movies and books that I loaned her. Things returned, that had been lent. The note was new, though. And it was her way of saying that she was sorry about how things had turned out. And that she still loved me very much but knew that we couldn't be together.
And to explain why I hadn't heard anything from her in 2 months. (To be fair, I didn't contact her either.)

I took that note with me to work the next day and placed it in a folder of personal effects and forgot about it. I found it last month, looking for tax paperwork.

And today, while searching for work emails that I actually seem to have lost, I found a folder full of emails that she and I exchanged. There's about 12 of them. And they trace the beginnings of our relationship all the way from our first contact to 2 months after it ended. For 9 months, we were as much in love as two people can be. And then it had to end.

I re-read some of those emails. As it turns out, that was a stupid, stupid decision, because I am missing her terribly right now. But I did it anyways...

The first one was a long email that she sent me, telling me about her family. A primer course on the people who were important to her. Before there was even a hint of something developing between us, I knew I should keep it. I wanted to know about those people. Because I wanted to know about her.

The second email has a dozen or so picture attachments.
Her out with friends.
Her with her parents.
Her with her cat.
One of them, which I won't reprint here, was so lovely, that it nearly broke my heart the first time that I saw it. It's in black and white and she's looking away from the camera and you can see her face in profile. Her thin neck and her sharp nose and her sharp chin. Her hair is pulled back into a neat ponytail. And she's so, so lovely. (She told me later that it was taken on a hot summer day and that she was sweaty and nasty from a late night out before, but none of that was captured by the camera. She is beautiful in that picture. No two ways about it.) I discretely tucked it away on the corner of my computer desktop and looked at her for nine, happy months.

Skip ahead a few emails and you can see the first time that she said that she loved me. A surprise, it was tucked in the middle of an email about something else. I was stunned by her bravery.

Skip ahead some more and you can see a love letter that I wrote her. I can't believe that I actually wrote her a love letter. I can't believe that I was ever so free with my emotions. That I ever attempted poetry and charming words. I can't imagine doing that again for someone. Maybe something was lost here, after all.

Then it gets bad.

The next email was the break up email. (Technically, the breakup happened the night before on the phone. The email cleans up the messy details and expands on the theme.)

Things were not going well. She was seeing someone else. Or rather, an old relationship came back again and it was taking focus. Eclipsing me, just as the Earth's shadow slowly eclipses the moon's face and wipes it away.

I needed more from her. I needed to be the only one. And a relationship that happily existed in "VagueryLand" had to become more stable. It had to change. I felt like I was losing ground. Fading backwards. Losing something slowly.

So, I asked for more. I actually asked her to make a decision, me or him.

And she chose him.

Technically, he came first. And sometimes, Dear Reader, that's all that it takes.

The next day, the day that we settled all accounts and she gently let me know that she was going to choose him, was May 2nd, 2005. One year ago, yesterday.

How strange that I would stumble onto that file full of emails today. One year and one day after it all ended. What are the odds of that?

ONE YEAR LATER,

We are talking again, she and I.
We have been for a few months now.
We chat about our friends and gossip and joke around. She's still with that other guy and things are as strong as they ever have been between them. She's genuinely happy with him. And that's a small consolation. She is, of course, kind enough not to mention the particular details to me. We don't flirt anymore, though, and that absence is noticable in all of our interractions. I miss that the most. (I've actually blogged about what it felt like to start talking with her again, in a fictional piece here on Word. You can read it here. )

It's been a year. But it feels like twenty. It's hard to remember that there was ever a time when she and I were as close as we were. I have closed down memories and sections of my heart like old wings of large house. I can't believe I ever trusted someone that much. That I was that vulnerable with someone. (I actually have already blogged about how this feels, in a fiction piece, here on Word. You can read that entry, here.)

I was so optimistic about her and I. I had to be. This other guy was always on the periphery. There was always a threat that he might come back. I had to put that aside and love her anyways. Sure, it might not have been smart, but I couldn't imagine living any other way. I couldn't avoid her or pretend that I didn't love her, because I might've been hurt. I had to hope for the best. As bad as it ever got, afterwards, I never regretted it.

And honestly, I keep a candle in the window for her, figuratively speaking. I feel like part of me is waiting for her to be free from that relationship and to come back. I wouldn't care about guilt or shame or anger. I would just be happy to have her around again.

TEN MONTHS AGO...

The last night that she was in my life and my apartment, she and I shared a bottle of wine. We made love and laid in bed, talking. She was sick, so I just rubbed her back and we talked about light, easy things. There was no hint that it was the last night that we were going to be together. Things didn't get bad until a day or two later.

And after they did get bad and I realized that things were over, I discovered her wine glass was still in the sink, waiting to be washed. I washed and dried everything else in that sink, but never touched that wine glass.

I couldn't. I just couldn't.

Washing that and hanging it up in my wineglass rack meant that it REALLY was over. And I couldn't admit that.

Two months later, in a fit of self motivation, I finally did it. I finally hung it up. It's coincidence and not some sort of intentional protest, but I haven't taken it down since then. Now, there's actually a think layer of dust on it.

There's a metaphor for you.

I know that it still affects me very deeply. The only relationship that I've had since then was not a good one. I was closed off and detached from Day One. That poor girl only got 5% of me. Which was so unfair. But that was the best I could give her then. It's no wonder that she was frustrated so early on. She was dating a hollowed out man. And who wants that?

I don't know how to end this entry.

I've recounted some of the history here and shared how I'm feeling right now and why this is all coming back up again. And I'm embarrased to be sharing something so deeply personal. I want to wrap all of this up in a neat, ironic bow. I want to slap some sort of quaint, tidy little nugget of wisdom on it and consider it closed. (As I do with most of these entries.) But I can't think of what the point should be. Or what we could learn from this.
I suspect that there is no deeper meaning here.

Sometimes, things just don't work out well and it's nobody's fault.

Sometimes there's nothing you can do.

The simple truth is that one year and one day ago, I lost a very precious relationship and I'm still hurting about it. I still mark it's loss. I'm still the walking wounded.

Happy Anniverary, baby...

Mr. B.

PS. I told you not to read this blog for a few days. I told you it was going to be ugly. I'm sorry.